


The Stranger That I Love

by IShipThem



Series: Pedro, the Queen's Guard [3]
Category: Sister Claire (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShipThem/pseuds/IShipThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Pedro and Maurice met; fell in love; then were properly introduced.</p><p>In this order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stranger That I Love

**Author's Note:**

> The title is way too dramatic, but screw it, I LOVE IT.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: There’s some misgendering due to the fact most of the fic takes place before Maurice transitioned. None of it is ill-intentioned, and none of it comes from Pedro, who refers to him as "they/them" until he’s explicitly told otherwise.

For the first time in over seven years, Pedro feels like he has some kind of control over his life. 

He stands leaning on the castle’s wall, staring at the piece of paper in his hands, at his own scribbly signature, and lets himself finally believe it’s for real. He did it. He did it! All that time training himself in the boulangerie’s backyard finally amounted to something!

So, Captain Josèphine did say his form was atrocious and that he’d have been killed faster than a pig on a stick on a real fight, but. She hired him, and that’s the most important. Now he has a foot on the door.

Pedro knows he’ll probably never be that important. He’s not even  _in_ the Royal Guard. There’s not that many steps in the ladder that he can climb, realistically speaking.

But that’s fine! It is. A couple more promotions and he’ll have enough money to buy his own place in the lower ring.  _Maybe_  even rent in the middle ring, if he’s feeling particularly ambitious. Pedro chuckles at himself. As if! He’d have nothing in common with his neighbors.

Still. When he has his own place, well, the sky’s the limit. He can take as long as he want to decorate it, exactly the way he wants to, without worrying about budget or if he’ll have to leave it soon. He can host dinner for friends. He can – and this makes his grip on the papers go tight – start thinking about a family.

A home.

 _Speaking of!_  He’d better get going. His boss is waiting to know if he got the job or not (i.e. if he’s gonna quit the boulangerie or not) and though she’s a fair woman, she’s also not exactly patient.

Oh, and Pedro must start to look for a new place immediately. He can’t live in her back room anymore! But that’s fine; plenty of other back rooms to be rented at the lower ring. As long as he plans his budget carefully.

It’s a sunny, windy day, and Pedro whistles as he makes his way back home. He can’t stop looking at his new contract. He’ll have someone look it over, of course, as he may be illiterate but not naïve. He can hand it in tomorrow.

Halfway on his walk back to the boulangerie, a great huff of wind blows over the city, hitting Pedro with a surprise chill. He shivers, reaching to pull his coat tighter against his body. And then—

The papers fly out of his hand.

Pedro’s heart freezes over. There’s a moment of absolute still panic; he stands there watching them fly away, up in the air carried by the wind, blood still and cold. “Ai,  _caralho_ ,” he mutters.

And then he tears off after them. Oh no, oh no,  _oh no._  Captain Josèphine is gonna  _kill him_  if she has to draft a new contract! Kill him! This isn’t the way to start a new job!

He runs after the damn thing up a flight of stairs and miles out of his way, pushing people aside as he goes. What the hell is the wind  _doing_ today?!  _Shit._ Shit, shit, shit. “Get back here already!”

Running down an alley, Pedro comes up to a canal that runs through the city, its waters shallow and greenish. His stomach backflips. Oh, not  _water!_

 _Yes, water._ His papers are going right at it!

Looking around desperately for a way to catch them, Pedro spots a bridge to his right. It’s a small thing, just an arch of light wood to allow crossing. But there’s someone standing in it. Pedro sucks in a breath.

“Hey, you! You! You in the bridge!” he yells. The person startles, looking around for who’s calling. “My papers! Can you please grab them? Right there!”

They see the contract before they see him, but Pedro can tell they understood. They grab for it, but it twists right out of their grasp, floating down towards the water. Pedro runs faster.

The person steps on the rail, throwing themselves forward. Their hand closes around the papers. Their feet leave the rail.

They scream, body tipping forward, and Pedro throws himself at them. His arms close around their waist. He yanks with all his strength and both of them come reeling back. “Ahhhh,  _merda_ ,” Pedro says, stumbling backwards under their combined weight. “Merda, merda, merda.”

His back hits the other hail and he finally manages to stop. Both of them stand completely still. The stranger clutches his papers to their chest, elbows in, body tense like a plank of wood.

Pedro realizes he still has his arms clenched around them.

“Oh, my goodness!” he gasps, flailing, letting go at once. Putting his hands to the stranger’s elbows, Pedro gently helps them to their feet, then hurries to scramble away.  “I’m so sorry! So terribly sorry! I shouldn’t have just grabbed you like that, I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

The stranger blinks, dazed, and looks up at him. From up close, Pedro can see they’re about the same age. They use a headscarf that hides all of their hair and a long black dress with golden leaves and their face is—

Pedro’s heart misses a step.

_—lovely._

“I’m fine,” the stranger says, a hesitant smile in their lips. Pedro feels his cheeks heating up. Oh. “Thank you for grabbing me. I wouldn’t have wanted a swim just now!”

They look down at Pedro’s papers while he stands there with his face burning, trying to make his mouth work again. Their hands are the same beautiful brown of their face. They hold his papers so gently too, trying to smooth out the corners they’ve wrinkled.

“Oh!” they say, smiling up at him. “This is a contract for the Royal Guard! Were you just hired?”

Pedro struggles to make the words come out. “Oh! Oh, no—not the Royal Guard, I—” He swallows, but the stranger keeps on smiling, patiently waiting for his answer. Oh they have such pretty eyelashes. “Only—only a soldier in training.”

The stranger’s face is blank. “I’m afraid I don’t know the difference,” they say, with a small, apologetic smile. “But I’m glad I could savage your contract.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” Pedro says at once. “I shouldn’t have asked you to grab it. You could’ve hurt yourself. I’m really sorry.”

The stranger pauses – then begins giggling.

And Pedro stops breathing for a moment.

“It’s no problem!” they say, cheerful, handing him back the papers. “It’s nice having a little bit of  _excitement_  in the day, don’t you think?”

Pedro can’t say a word; he’s too busy trying not to embarrass himself.

Someone’s voice interrupts them; a man calling out in a language Pedro doesn’t recognize. The stranger turns to look. Answers in the same language. “I’m sorry,” they tell Pedro, giving him a last sweet smile. “I have to go now. But good luck with your new job!”

Their fingertips brush Pedro’s hand. Then they pull up their hem to avoid tripping and run down the steps of the bridge, catching the arm of an older man further ahead. Pedro stares at their retreating backs. His heart hammers.

Then he realizes:

He didn’t catch their  _name._

“Ai, merda.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Training is exhausting, but so far, it’s been better than Pedro predicted. If he works hard, he makes steady progress, and in the meantime, he’s making new friends.

Plenty of the trainees are from the outer ring; many others come from families with small business or bureaucratic jobs. They have more in common than Pedro would’ve guessed. They talk while maintaining the royal guard’s weapons, sharpening and oiling and mending.

He thought the castle hired people specifically for that. Turns out, they don’t. It’s the trainees’ job.

But he can live with that.

Twice every month, Pedro gets a day off. He organizes them like so: one for sleeping, one for dealing with piled-up tasks, one to have some fun. It’s a good balance, he thinks. Even if it means he has to beg his next-door neighbor to help him with the laundry.

Three months in, on his second fun day, Pedro decides he’s gonna weave himself some baskets.

Even if that doesn’t fall under other people’s definitions of fun. He  _likes_  weaving baskets. If he’s feeling particularly fancy he can add a pink ribbon around the edge.

It’s too much of a nice day to stay inside, so Pedro figures: why should he? Whistling, he gathers his materials and goes marching outside, in search of a nice spot. Somewhere they won’t mind him and his bag of wet straw.

His search leads him to a public park. He finds a bench next to a street musician, drops a few coins in his hat, and sits down. Ponders what he’s gonna make. He’s always been better at baskets, but he learned a bit of everything back at home. Carpets, pot holders, bags,  _petecas_. They were never short on petecas.

As he twists the pieces of straw into a single cord, Pedro takes a moment to look around him. There’s plenty of people out enjoying the park. Families and couples and groups of friends. As Pedro watches, a little girl no older than three passes by holding hands with two older children – maybe siblings? They lean down so she can reach up without strain. Every couple of steps they raise her, swinging her between them, and she laughs and kicks her feet up in the air.

Pedro smiles down at his work, weaving the string between the nails in the mold. Maybe he’ll make this a gift for his neighbor.

It takes him a little less than half an hour to finish it. Securing the last bit of straw – weaving it in,  _not_  knotting – he puts the mold to one side and stretches his hands. Ooph! Practice doesn’t make it a lot easier on the fingers!

A group of girls passes right by his bench, and Pedro looks up at them. They seem young, maybe about his own age, and all wear the same headscarves and dresses the stranger in the bridge had. Pedro stares wistfully after them. He knows those clothes must’ve actual names, but he has no idea of what they’d be. Or what’s the stranger’s name. Or where they are.

He groans, leaning his face against his hand. It would be creepy if he walked up to them and asked, wouldn’t it?

Yes. Yes, he knows. It’d be super creepy.

Still, Pedro watches as they walk further inside the park, chatting and laughing and throwing arms around each other’s shoulders. They look like they’re having fun.

They all stop at an intersection, just mingling around and shifting their weight from foot to foot. Pedro figures they could be waiting for someone.

Ah! Yes, there they are. A new person running up to them, in a black and cerulean dress, waving with one hand. The whole group cheers at their arrival. Pedro chuckles.

He’s just about to go back to his weaving, when the new person turns around, looking back at someone in their group.

Pedro has a nasty heart attack.

THEM! It’s  _them!_

Grabbing his thing in a desperate dash, Pedro stuffs the mold back in his purse and tears off after the group. Suddenly, the whole city seems to be in his way. Pedro wedges a path through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the group and praying he won’t trip on his feet. They turn a curve. Pedro runs for sweet life.

Then almost crashes into them.

He breaks hard enough to send his internal organs flying inside his ribcage. The girls all turn like one, startled. Pedro’s met with half a dozen disapproving stares, each more scatting then the last, and his tongue ties up in a strong knot. Uh-oh.

“Can we  _help_  you?” one of the girls asks, the oldest one. Pedro looks back at her. Fiddles with the straps of his bag.

A tiny voice in the back of his skull is telling him:  _maybe you should’ve thought this through._

But he’s here now.

“Well, I—” he tries, and looks over at his Stranger. They’re staring up at him with some mix of curiosity and caution, but there’s— _something_  about their eyes. “I—I know—I mean, we’ve met—”

And suddenly recognition crosses their face. “Oh!” they gasp, smiling like the sun in the sky. “The bridge man!”

Their friends turn to look at them as if they’ve lost it. “Excuse me?” the oldest girl asks. They beam up at her.

“I know him,” they say, and the group visually relaxes. “We’ve met. Months ago.”

Then, turning to look back at Pedro, and still smiling, they add: “You wanted to talk to me?”

Pedro has to fight to regain control over his mouth. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I wanted—I just wanted—well—”

They wait for him to finish, still smiling, but that just makes it harder. Desperately, Pedro looks for something to say. Something that won’t make him look like a creep. Or pathetic.

“I wanted to thank you!”

 _Yes._ Good one!

The strange corks one eyebrow, amused, and changes their books from arm to arm. “For rescuing your papers?” they say.

Pedro nods, eagerly. “Yes. I realized, well, I realized that I apologized a lot last time, but I didn’t even remember to thank you. So I just wanted—”

He pauses. Tries to remember his etiquette. He’s been trying to learn, lately, for if he’s ever to earn a promotion, he’s gotta know how to talk fancy. And not all of it bad. Some of it is his friend Marianne reading him romance novels over their break (and always leaving him hanging, that evil girl).

So he straightens himself. Fists his hand over his heart; “I wanted to sincerely thank you for your help,” and bows down.

An explosion of giggles is his answer. He looks up, and the whole group of girls is having mad fits of giggling, hiding their faces in each other’s shoulders. Not his stranger though – their cheeks are blooming red, and they’re furiously trying to shush their friends, hissing at them in their own language. Pedro’s not sure of what this means.

Finally, the older girl starts poking the others, and the group eventually subsides. His stranger is still flaming hot. “It was nothing,” they say, breathless. “Really, it was—I’m glad I could help.”

Pedro smiles shyly. “It did help me a lot.”

His stranger looks down, fiddling with their books. “I’m glad.”

There’s an awkward pause, filled with muffled giggling, and while Pedro searches for something else to say, the stranger’s eyes fall on his bag. “Oh!” they say, perking up again. “Were you—were you making crafts?”

“Crafts?” Pedro repeats. “Oh! Oh, yes—I was— I was weaving.”

He pulls the finished basket out of his bag and offers it to them. They  _awwww_  at it. “It’s so lovely!” they say, taking it from him gingerly. “I’ve never seen weaving like this. What did you use for it?”

“Oh. Well—corn husks,” hey says. The stranger turns his basket this way and that, mindful of the nails, than smiles at him.

“Can you take it off?” they ask, pointing at the mold. Pedro shakes his head.

“It’s not dry yet,” he says, and then, hit by a sudden bolt of inspiration. “But—but if you want to, I can give it to you once it  _is_  dry.” His cheeks go hot. “As a present.”

The girls start giggling again, but the stranger doesn’t even notice. Their eyes stay fixed on Pedro. “I would really like that,” they say, soft.

“Well, but how is he gonna do that if he’s just said it’s wet?”

They both turn to look. The older girl is next to his stranger, struggling not to laugh, a mischievous gleam to her eyes. “You have to wait until it’s dry, right?” she asks Pedro.

“Well—yes, but—”

“So how about,” she interrupts. “You two go ahead and wait until it’s dry and we’ll come back to fetch her then? Sounds good?”

Pedro’s not sure what are these girl’s intentions, but he can’t deny that it sounds  _extremely good_ to him.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he tells his stranger, gently, and tries to keep his stomach from doing summersaults. They smile shyly at him.

“Okay, then,” they say.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Does that hurt your hands?”

Pedro looks up from his work, and meets his stranger’s curious eyes as they peer down. He smiles, all warm. “They do get numb,” he tells them. “But I’m used to it.”

The stranger spreads his palm and Pedro hands them the unfinished basket. They examine it with interest. Their fingers are nothing like Pedro; they’re soft and elegant and smudged with ink, and thread carefully around the nail heads. “Do you make those for selling?” they ask him. Pedro smiles.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes I make them for myself.” And an added thought: “Or as gifts.”

The stranger blushes, ducking their head again. They handle the basket back. “But you’re working for the Royal Guard, right?”

Pedro makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, sort of. I’m a trainee.” At the stranger’s blank look, he goes on: “It’s like I’m working for the royal  _guards._ We do all sorts of things they don’t wanna do. Like polishing their boots.” He rolls his eyes. “But we get training, and there’s a chance they’ll promote you to the actual Guard if you do well.”

“Do they pay you?”

Pedro smiles. “Little bit.”

“Can you survive on that?”

“Not exactly.” Pedro reaches for his bag, hunting for his screwdriver. “But I saved for a long time. So I’m good for at least a couple years.”

The stranger nods, considering this. “And then you get promoted?”

“If everything goes right.”

That makes them smile, as if Pedro’s just said something admirable. They pull their books back into their lap, fiddling with their pages. Pedro peeks at them. Works up the courage to ask:

“What about you?”

“Me?” they say, looking up, sounding surprised Pedro would’ve asked. “What about me?”

He smiles at them, endeared. “What do you work on?”

“Oh!” the stranger breathes, and then start chuckling. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Well, I’m a copyist.” They grin with obvious pride. “And an illuminator.”

Pedro feels his cheeks go hot, and not pleasantly this time. He fidgets, uncomfortable. Then, saying the words more to his work than to them: “I, huh. I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh! I can show you!” the stranger says. They pull a volume from their pile of books, one that’s been lovingly wrapped in blue cloth. “See, this is one of my works in progress.”

He hands Pedro the book, and he tries to be careful with it, like the baby birds he’d rescued as a child. It’s a beautiful leather-bond volume, with uncut parchment paper. Gingerly, Pedro opens it.

The cover comes off.

“OH MY GOODNESS,” he screams in a complete panic, but the stranger just bursts out laughing.

 _“Oh my God!_  Oh my God, I’m so sorry—” they wheeze, laughing themselves to tears. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you—oh, no, no no no, don’t be worried… the book’s not bound yet!”

Heart still beating a million miles per hour, Pedro looks down again and sees: it’s true. There’s nothing bounding the pages together. His body sags with relief. “I almost had a heart attack!” he tells the stranger, but there’s no heat to it. They are still shaking with laughter.

“So sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”  Burying their face in their hands, they finally manage to stop laughing. “You should’ve seen your  _face!_  Oh, no, no I  _am_  sorry—here, let me show you.”

Sliding closer to Pedro, they reach out and begin turning the pages. Each one is a work of art in its own; beautiful illustrations and golden leafing and intricate patterns all surrounding the neatest handwriting Pedro’s ever seen. He’s breathless.

“You did this?” he asks them, his voice a reverent whisper, looking up at his stranger. They blush.

“Well, yes. Yes, I did.”

”This is amazing,“ Pedro says, heartfelt, and his stranger blushes even deeper. "It’s beautiful—It’s, it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Oh, no, stop,” the stranger says, hiding their face in their hands. “It’s not! I’m not even done with my training yet—”

“You’re gonna get better than this?” Pedro gasps, and they make a strangled noise of embarrassment. “No way! That’s amazing!”

“Oh,  _stop it,_  you!” his stranger says. They swat at his arm, but there’s a smile playing at their lips, a breath short of laughter. “You can shower me in praises when I finish the book.”

“Will you let me see it, then?” Pedro asks. The stranger gives him a knowing look. But they smile, still.

“If you want to,” they say. Pedro feels a startling bust of happiness in his chest, painful like the bite of a dagger. His heart beats out of compass.

The sun is already starting to sink by the time his stranger’s friends come to fetch them. They stop in the middle of a long tale about their friend Elaine and the macaroon incident, looking unusually dejected for someone seeing their own friends. “Oh,” they say quietly. “I guess this means I must be going.”

“Oh! Oh, wait, wait—” Hurrying, Pedro fetches his mold and his hammer. He does quick work of the nails, then gently eases the basket out. “Here you go.”

The stranger takes the basket once again with incredible care. Pedro smiles; he wants to tell them there’s no need to, that the basket’s sturdy, but he kind of likes this. A lot. 

“Thank you,” the stranger says, hugging it to their chest. “I love it.”

Pedro bites his tongue before he says something truly absurd. “I’m glad you liked it,” they say. “Can I ask you something in return?”

The stranger brings the basket to their lips, a mischievous gleam to their eyes. “Maybe,” they say. “What is it?”

Pedro feels unreasonably nervous asking: “Your name?”

Immediately he fears he’s said something wrong. His stranger lowers the basket, and a strange looks crosses their face – he watches, in horror, as they look down at their lap, awkwardly fiddling with their skirt. “You don’t  _have_  to—”

“Is it—”

They both stop at once. His stranger gives him a small smile. “Is it okay,” they try again. “If I don’t tell you my name just yet?”

Pedro just blinks. He begins to answer, but before he can, they interrupt him: “I just don’t want—” They stop; swallow. Their face is all earnest fretting. “I don’t want you to think it’s because I don’t want to see you again. Because I do! I do! It’s for a completely different reason.”

Pedro feels himself smiling like an utter fool. “So you  _do_  want to see me again?”

His stranger’s face softens like candle wax. “Is that what you choose to focus on?” they tease, but their voice betrays them. “Yes, I do.”

Pedro _cannot_  stop grinning. “I’m fine with that,” he says. “But I do need something to call you by.”

Humming, his stranger twirls the basket between his fingers, a fine, graceful motion. “What have you been calling me so far?” they ask. “When you think of me, that is.”

 _Uh-oh,_ Pedro thinks, and his face goes all hot. His stranger notices.

“Oh? Is it embarrassing?” they tease, a smile spreading across their face. Pedro fidgets.

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“It _is_  embarrassing!” the stranger exclaims, then laughs as Pedro blushes more. “Oh, do tell me. Please? Please, do.”

Pedro looks up at the sky, wriggling his hands. Clears his throat. “The… hmmm… the, the beautiful stranger in the bridge, actually.”

His stranger is silent; when Pedro finally looks down, their face is so red you could mistake it for a strawberry, but the smile in their lips is wider than ever. “A beautiful stranger?” they repeat, and Pedro’s heart goes all  _samba_. “That’s a mouthful.” They pause, thinking, and then: “A stranger, maybe? For now?”

Pedro smiles, getting up and offering them his hand. “A stranger,” he agrees. “For now.”

Smiling, they accept his hand and let him pull them to their feet, clutching their things tight. “And—and yours?” they ask, hesitant. “I’m sorry—I know it isn’t fa—”

“Pedro.”

His stranger stops, surprised, and then smiles at him. “Pedro?” they repeat. It sounds different in their lips, curlier and softer and swirling. Pedro squeezes their hand. Nods.

“Pedro Valverde,” he says.

And the way they squeeze their hand back makes Pedro feel light-headed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Part of Pedro’s duties now include assisting his superiors during patrols. He always gets the miserable shifts: the wee hours of the nights, the neighborhoods no one wants to go to, the downpours. But that’s part of the job description. He’s used to it.

He takes a lot of the midday shifts, which’ll make you sweat like a pig, but to Pedro it’s nothing compared to home. Home didn’t have a sea breeze. Or trees to drawn out the heat. Home only had parents screaming at you to get inside and drink water before you passed out again.

Dutifully, Pedro sips from his canteen.

He’s accompanying his boss, Lady Aurelie, on an inspection route the day they meet again. It mostly involves hanging out outside stores catching shopkeepers that try to bolt for it when they don’t have their taxes. It’s downright depressing. Pedro hates inspections.

But he doesn’t complain, or at least not out loud. He follows behind Lady Aurelie and sips his water. When she’s not looking, he fans himself with his hat, but that’s it.

And then, on that day, two-thirds of the route through…

“Pedro! Pedro!  _Pedro, for the love of God, look here!”_

He turns, surprised. No one around here would know him for his name, so he’d just assumed it wasn’t him. But—

“Stranger!” Pedro exclaims, delighted, heart doing cartwheels in his chest. “It’s you!”

“And it  _is_  you! Thank the Lord! Now hide me.”

At Pedro’s baffled stare, the stranger grabs the back of his robes and yanks him to the side. It’s not nearly enough to make him move, but Pedro goes.  His shoulders shake with laughter. “Stranger?”

“ _Hide me,”_  they say again, more forceful. “My friend’s asshole brother is right over there on the corner, and if he sees me I swear to God I’ll punch him. I will. I know it.” They pause. “Please don’t tell anyone I said the word ‘asshole’.”

Pedro is trying so hard not to laugh he’s afraid he’ll break a rib. “Why not?”

“My father is very strict about language,” they reply. Slowly, they rise up to their tiptoes behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Is he still there?”

Pedro scans their surroundings. “That depends. Is he a scrawny guy with a greasy mustache that looks like he thinks he’s God’s gift to humankind?”

The stranger presses their forehead to his back, shaking with giggles. “That’s him.”

“Yups, still there.”

They say something that sounds like a curse in the language Pedro doesn’t know. “How long can you stand there?”

 _Forever_ is what he would like to say. But… “About five more minutes.” He glances at the inside of the store. “I’m with my boss and we have a schedule.” 

“Well,” his stranger says, “that just won’t do,”. They stay silent, and Pedro assumes they’re thinking, so he does the same. Then: “If I do something, will you go along with it?”

Pedro smiles. It should worry him more that he turns into such putty when they’re around. But it doesn’t. “Feel free,” he says.

“Who’s your boss?” the stranger asks, trying to peek into the store. “Never mind, that was a silly question. The one with the big sword, I’m guessing.”

Pedro has to fake a coughing fit to not laugh. Well, his stranger can’t know the jokes that go around in the Royal Guard’s dressing room. “That’s her.”

“Wait here,” they say, then slip quickly inside. Pedro glances inside.

They approach Lady Aurelie looking distressed, their body language fearful, eyes a little red. Pedro’s both impressed and worried. She listens to them gravely, nodding the whole time. Then, putting a hand to their shoulders, guides them outside the store, right towards him.

“Pedro,” she calls, and he snaps into attention. “This young lady says there’s someone suspicious following her. Make sure she gets to her home unharmed, than meet me at the end of our round. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pedro says, then glances down at his stranger. They look uncomfortable now. And not like they’re faking it. “Shall we go, then,… hm… citizen?”

Lady Aurelie looks him funny, but his stranger gives him a smile that has Pedro weak in the knees. He struggles to remain professional. Cleaning her throat, his boss turns back to them: “Pedro’ll make sure you arrive unharmed, miss.”

His stranger thanks her, politely, then gestures the right way for him and starts walking. They make it to the corner with a straight face, but as soon as they turn it: they lose it. His stranger doubles over with laughter. Pedro shakes with it. They stand there bursting in laughter again and again every time they look at each other, then hear steps coming and dash down the street like fugitives.

“Oh my God,” his stranger gasps once they’re out of sight. “Oh my God, that was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. I can’t believe we  _did_  that!”

Pedro’s got a bad case of the giggles. “I know!” he says. “I can’t believe  _you_  did that.”

“Me neither!”

They smile at each other for what feels like too long and too little. Then his stranger looks down, embarrassed. Fixes their headscarf. “Oh, my, I run too much. I need something cold.”

Hesitant, he looks up at Pedro. “Well… my treat?”

Pedro’s more than happy to accept.

They find a cool little shop that sells fancy lemonade, and his stranger smiles, amused, at Pedro’s reaction to it. “They have pink lemonade,” he tells them. “I don’t think you understand: they have _pink lemonade.”_

 They laugh, and buy him the largest size.

Sitting down outside, on the shade, they sip their drinks as slowly as they can manage. They talk about their favorite foods; exchange recipes on their napkins; swap cups halfway through. Pedro tells a joke that makes his stranger laugh so hard they cry. Then they finish telling the story of Elaine and the macaroon incident, and Pedro is so enthralled, he chews his straw to oblivion without noticing.

“What about you?” his stranger asks, swirling his leftover ice. “What are you going to do if you get your promotion?”

“Me?” Pedro says, than shrugs. “Ah, nothing big. I wanted to get my own place. And, ah— well—” He averts his eyes. “I would—I would like to have a family. Marry. Have kids. You know?”

His stranger swirls the ice some more. “A man or a woman?”

“Hmmm?” Pedro says. Looks up. “Oh, I don’t mind. They can be whatever they want. As long as they’re happy, you know?”

His stranger smiles, endeared. “No,” they say. “I mean, who do you want to  _marry?”_

“Oh!” Pedro says, then flicks a paper ball at them when they start to laugh. “I keep my answer. I don’t mind.” He drinks his sloppy ice water. “I don’t care if we can’t have biological children or anything like that.”

Smiling into their cup like they have a secret, their stranger pulls up their pocket watch. “Should you get going, Pedro?” they ask. “I don’t want you to have problems with your boss.”

“What time is it?” They turn the watch towards him. “Oh, yeah. Yeah… I should be going.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

They try to stretch the walk back, but there’s not much Pedro can do; Lady Aurelie said half an hour, so half an hour it is. Still, he lingers at the street’s corner. He doesn’t want to go yet. “You know, next month—” he starts, than bites his tongue. Well, in for a penny… “Next month… you know—you know the tournament?”

“The annual swords tournament?” his stranger says. Pedro nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’m—I’m taking part in it this year,” Pedro says. “Not for any prize money, that is. We—hm, we are allowed to participate as long as we don’t actually run for prizes.” Because  _that_  makes sense, Pedro thinks to himself. Oh, well. He doesn’t have to pay the entry fee. He’s not gonna start complaining. “Would you—I know it’ll probably not interest you much, you don’t  _need_  to come— _at all,_  but—”

His stranger only looks at him, confused. Pedro works up his courage:

“Would you like to come and see me?”

All at once, they’re smiling like Pedro’s just offered them then sun on a platter. “Yes! Yes, I would  _love_ to!”

The whole week, Pedro’s smiling so much, his co-workers think he’s been drinking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He doesn’t expect to win the tournament. He knows better than that; he’s only been training for a few months, and most contestants have had  _years_  of practice. Talent only gets you so far; Pedro knows.

So his goal for this year is to make an impression. He knows he won’t win, but he’ll damn right aim for it. If you go in believing you’ve lost, then you’ve definitely already lost! And that simply won’t do.

His stranger will be watching him. Pedro feels like a teenager about this, but screw it; he wants to impress them. He  _will_  impress them. Realistic expectations be damned!

“Pedro, for fuck’s sake, will you  _sit down already?”_

Pedro scowls, looking back inside. Marianne is sitting in one of the benches clutching her stomach, rocking back and forth and looking positively green. He can’t be mad at her. “Are you all right?”

“ _No,”_  she moans, glaring at him. “Do I look all right? I’m gonna puke. I’m gonna puke in front of the  _whole city.”_ She hides her face in her hands. “What do you keep running to the door for?”

Before Pedro can answer, someone else calls out from the back: “Oh, he’s trying to see if his  _sweetheart_  came.”

Pedro faces burn. “They are  _not_  my sweetheart!” he calls back, and feels thirteen years old. There’s a round of laughter.

“Oh, yeah, and that’s why you’ve been dancing over there for the next half an hour like a  _girl,”_  someone else replies. Marianne punches them in the stomach. _“Ouch!_  What was that  _for?”_

“For being an ass,” she tells him. Then turns to Pedro: “Well, are they there yet?”

Pedro sticks his head outside again. “I don’t know. There’s too many people.” He leans forward as far as he dares. “What time is it now?”

“Fifteen minutes to go,” is the reply. Marianne groans.

Pedro doesn’t see them until halfway through the tournament; he has no way to know if they’re there, but they  _could be_. They could, and that’s enough for him.

They  _could_ be.

He wins all of his first fights. By the end of it, his body  _hates_  him, positively. Everything hurts. And there’s still plenty more to go before the day is over.

Then, his next round: he sees them. Their headscarf today is of a bright red, and they’re standing, yelling at the top of their lungs, even though Pedro can’t hear a word. He sees them, and he twists the sword right out of his opponent’s grip.

They  _could_ be. They could – and Pedro thinks, his heart beating wild in his throat – that he’d really like to see that

Pedro doesn’t win that tournament. Not by far. But he ranks higher than he’d dared expect, and Captain Josèphine catches his eyes as he’s walking out; makes an approving sort of sound, and if he weren’t so exhausted, Pedro thinks he’d have started dancing on the spot.

“Pedro! Pedro!  _PEDRO, WAIT UP, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”_

He stops, startled out of his haze of sleep, and turns. His stranger is running to them at full speed, their face red and their breath heavy as they skit to a halt. “Why—were you—running?” they gasp, gripping their chest. Pedro fumbles for a handkerchief.

“I wasn’t running,” he says, fanning them with it awkwardly. “I was walking fast.”

The stranger gives him a grumpy stare. “Walking—fast—?” they repeat. “Is that—what you call—walking?”

Pedro can’t help it; he laughs, and leans down to blow on their face. It’s automatic. It’s what his mother used to do when he was out of breath – fan him with her apron, and blow gently over him. “Calma, menino,” she used to say. “Don’t you go blowing your lungs out.”

It’s automatic. But his stranger looks up and suddenly Pedro freezes. Oh no. Oh, no—they are close.

They are very close.

They are—too close.

Pedro’s heart turns into fireworks. His brain disconnects. He fumbles, cheeks burning, eyes locked into the dark ones of his stranger, and he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what  _to do,_ they’re just so—so—

His stranger goes on tiptoe.

The first time they kiss, Pedro’s bleeding and sweaty and so tired he can barely stay on his feet. His stranger is still breathing hard against his cheek. It’s nearly by accident, nothing like Pedro had envisioned it – no romantic lightning or the bubble of a river or a nice trinket in his back pocket.

It’s his stranger’s eyes falling close and the feel of cloth when Pedro cups their elbows and it’s their lips, warm from the sun, meeting his only barely.

It’s absolutely perfect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You have to go away?”

Next to him, his stranger nods, cupping their hands around their hot cocoa. It’s getting chillier each day, it seems. Chillier still next to the canal, but it’s their usual meeting spot, and Pedro has never denied he’s a romantic fool.

He waits for them to go on, but they don’t, so he asks: “For how long?”

His stranger is still looking down, their legs dangling over the water. “Six months,” they say, quietly.

Pedro feels their heart sink right to the bottom.  _“Six months?”_ he says. Then flinches. Oh, he didn’t mean to sound so shouty!

“Yeah…” His stranger takes a sip, their eyelids swooping low over their eyes. “I know it’s a long time.”

They sigh, and Pedro stays silent, watching them. When they spend a long time quiet, he reaches out, interweaving their fingers. “What are you going away for?”

His stranger lays their head on his shoulder. “It’s a retreat, actually. In an island further up the sea. Not far.” They hold Pedro’s hand between their own, kissing his fingers. “It’s—Well, I have—” They make a little frustrated sound. “There’s something I have to think about real hard. I think it’ll be good for me.”

Pedro caresses their cheek. They don’t want to think about not seeing them for  _six months_  – they see little enough of each other as it is. But…

But they’re quiet. They’re so quiet, and Pedro thinks, maybe, it’s because they’re scared.

“Is it important to you?” he asks. His stranger buries their face in his shoulder, and really, that’s more than enough. “Then I’ll wait for you. I will. You know that I will.”

They sigh like Pedro’s just lifted a boulder off their shoulders. “You promise? Promise me. I want a solemn promise, you hear what I’m saying?”

Laughing, Pedro takes their face in his hands. They pout most adorably. “I swear I’ll wait for you,” he says. “I solemnly swear. You swear you’ll come back?”

His stranger reaches out and holds Pedro’s hands. Squeezes tight. “Solemnly swear.”

Pedro tugs them forward, huddling closer against the cold, and they kiss him as if they want to memorize him down to the last cell. Their breath is warm on Pedro’s lips when they part. They are all warm. He never wants to let them go.

But six months – he can do this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He  _cannot_  do this.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Pedro,” Marianne says, throwing a towel at his head.  _“Please_ stop moping. You’re depressing me.”

“What’s the problem with him, now?” someone screams from the back. Pedro groans.

“They’re gone and my soul weeps,” he says. “My world is black without them. I see not—SHIT MARIANNE, WHY.”

She looks hard at him, then dumps another bucket of water over his head. “I’m trying to  _shower_  and you’re quoting harlequins at me, while  _naked_ , and crying for the  _looove_  of your  _liiiife,_  whose name you don’t even know. Clean yourself already so we can leave? I’ve stared at enough dingus to last me a lifetime.”

From the back of the room, the same voice screams again: “YOU WANNA SEE ONE UP CLOSE, MARIANNE?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, PIERRE, I’LL HURT YOU,” she yells back, but there’s a smile playing at her lips. Pedro doesn’t understand her sense of humor.

“But I  _miss_  them,” he tells her, dejected. She sighs.

“Can’t you miss them fully clothed?”

Pedro thinks about it; the inertia of sulking while naked in the showers is surprisingly appealing right now. “Fine,” he says at last. “But only if you buy me a smoothie.”

“Ugh,  _fine,_  you whiny baby.”

He laughs, feeling a bit better, and goes to fetch his clothes. It’s the end of an exhausting day at the tail end of six exhausting months. He misses them at every turn. Sure, he’s been getting more sleep, but if Pedro had to choose between sleeping and running off to steal any available second he could with his stranger—

His bed doesn’t have their pretty eyes.

Or their amazing personality.

Or their laughter.

Pedro really misses his laughter.

Marianne slaps him upside the head. “Pedro, I’m  _talking_  to you,” she says. “That guy is staring.”

“What?” Pedro says. He doesn’t turn, because he’s been trained better than that. “At you?”

“No, silly goose. I’d have killed him, already. At you.”

Pedro feigns nonchalance – keeps his steps light. “Should I be worried?”

Marianne pretends to inspect her nails. “Seven o’clock.”

Discreetly, Pedro looks over.

There’s really someone staring at them – someone dancing in place, as if they can’t quite decide if they should approach. Pedro doesn’t think he’s ever met them. But they definitely don’t look dangerous.

“I’ll catch up in a second, okay?” he tells Marianne. She shrugs, but he knows she’ll be watching his back. So he turns around and walks towards them.

They freeze up at the sight of him, elbows locking like a deer in the headlights. The motion strikes him as somewhat familiar. So does their face; a lovely shade of brown, a straight nose, beautiful eyebrows. But Pedro can’t place it.

He stops in front of them, still trying to figure it out. Hesitates. Then tries: “…hello?”

They pull in a breath like Pedro’s just struck them. “Hello,” they say. Their eyes are huge.

Something’s stirring at the back of Pedro’s mind. He looks at them,  _really_  looks, tries to understand why is his stomach doing laps inside of him…

But then…

They smile.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

And everything snaps back into place.

“STRANGER!” he screams, and they burst out laughing. “What—what  _happened_ —oh my goodness,  _look_  at you—your hair! You’re not wearing your headscarf! And your clothes!” Astonished, he reaches out to cup their cheek, gaping at the feel of their short hair under his fingers. “You look completely different! What—”

He stops himself short, biting his tongue. His stranger smiles at him, their black eyes sparkling like Pedro’s never quite seen them, and reaches for his hand. “It’s good to see you too, Pedro,” they say.

“Oh,” Pedro says. They start laughing again. “Oh. I get it.”

His stranger giggles, turns his palms to place a kiss in it, and looks more breathtaking gorgeous than they ever have before. Pedro didn’t think it was possible.

He feels himself smile like a complete fool. “So,” he says, leaning down so their foreheads touch. “Does that mean you’ll tell me your name now?”

His stranger starts giggling again; can’t seem to stop it. Looking up, they catch Pedro’s eyes like sharing a secret, like the first time they’d kissed.  Their hand tightens around his.

And then: “Maurice,” they tell him in a breath.

 Pedro feels like he’s gonna hurt himself from smiling. “Maurice?” he repeats, and they nod, nod like crazy, giggling even harder. “Maurice.”

“He pronouns,” they add –  _he adds_ – and then suddenly his eyes looks unsure. “Is that—is that okay—?”

Laughing, Pedro catches him around the waist and pulls him into his arm – Maurice gasps at the movement, and then they’re kissing, and it’s been  _six months_ , and Pedro missed him, missed him every day, missed him  _all the time_ —

“I missed you too,” Maurice says into his lips, hanging on tight. He smiles, so relieved it’s painful to see, and then asks: “So – how about a smoothie?”

Pedro beams at him like a fool _._ “Smoothie,” he agrees. Then he takes Maurice’s hand in his. “C’mon. Let me introduce you to Marianne.”

They walk down the street hand in hand, glued together the whole way, and Pedro beams at a very smug looking Marianne. “Marianne,” he says, ignoring her knowing smile, “let me introduce you Maurice.” He looks down at him, heart full to bursting, and adds: “My boyfriend.”


End file.
